Detective Darby Adler is about to hand in her badge…
The fourth book in the Grave Talker series is here!
There should be a rule in the universe somewhere that said if someone—namely, me—had already dealt with enough shit, then no one could bother said someone for at least twenty-four hours.
Or maybe forty-eight.
A case could be made for seventy-two as well.
But since such a rule did not exist—at least in this universe—I was stuck with my ass on the grass, staring at a bullshit note and wishing I could explode the sender’s brain with my mind. Exploding a brain couldn’t be too far outside my new scope of abilities. I’d twisted the heads off a group of ghouls’ shoulders a few days ago with no more than a flick of my fingers. Making one measly brain go poof should be child’s play, right?
Though, with my teeth rattling around in my head from the ground shaking beneath my feet, I figured maybe, just maybe, my new abilities may not be a good thing. I mean, the wind whipping through the church could possibly have been a fluke, but the ground shaking like a goddamn maraca?
Still, I couldn’t peel my eyes from that note to save my life, and more? I didn’t want to.
Azrael lied to you. Killian isn’t where you think he is.
Come find me when you’re ready for the truth.
The man who I’d called “Father” my whole life was in the ground right now, his body moldering in his casket, and the man who’d set it all into motion had the nerve to pick at the bloody scab that was my wounded heart.
I reached for that stupid note, ready to set it on fire or crumble it up, or something, anything but let it lie in the grass where my dad had been put to rest. A hard hand knocked my fingers away before they could make contact, startling me right out of my ill-conceived plan. My sister stared at me like I’d grown a whole new head—and for good reason. A few months ago, she’d gotten a similar note from our brother, one that would have killed her had she not been utterly and totally dead already.
“Are you okay?” Sloane asked, rolling her eyes at herself as she did so. She’d asked me that same question quite a lot over the last few days, and each time she seemed to curse herself.
I cradled the hand she’d smacked against my chest as I inspected her features—ones that seemed to flicker every couple of seconds from regular Sloane to one so fucking frightening it was a wonder I wasn’t running away screaming.
Poker face, don’t fail me now.
Annie Anderson is a military wife and United States Air Force veteran. Originally from Dallas, Texas, she is a southern girl at heart, but has lived all over the US and abroad. As soon as the military stops moving her family around, she’ll settle on a state, but for now she enjoys being a nomad with her husband, two daughters, an old man of a dog, and a young pup that makes life… interesting.